the roadside fire
by Cora Clavia
Summary: I will make a palace fit for you and me, of green days in forests, and blue days at sea. For daphnebeauty. Oneshot.


Set pretty much any time in season 5.

For daphnebeauty, who demanded something "mindless and kissy."

* * *

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight  
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night,  
I will make a palace fit for you and me  
Of green days in forests, and blue days at sea.

_The Roadside Fire_, Robert Louis Stevenson

* * *

By the time Kate trudges through her front door, her eyes are already half-shut. Gates had practically kicked her out of the precinct, telling her that unconscious detectives were useless; go home and get rest. Castle had been out in meetings for the day, and she'd been almost too busy to miss him, outside of the brief pangs in her stomach because he hadn't been there to remind her to eat lunch.

She's still hungry but too tired to even pull out a box of crackers, so she shrugs, drops her bag, puts her gun and badge away, locks the door, and collapses onto her sofa without even pulling off her jacket.

* * *

It feels like she slept for years when she wakes to the sound of a pot lid clanging and a muffled curse coming from – the kitchen?

Wait. Shouldn't that have been louder?

Kate yawns and opens her eyes. She's not on her couch.

She's in bed.

Her jacket is hung up, her boots pulled off and neatly set by her wardrobe, her top button unbuttoned, and the covers drawn up over her. Her bedroom door is half-open; she smells the rich aroma of bruschetta and garlic floating in from the kitchen. Her lips turn up in a smile. _Castle._

She sits up, pushing the comforter back, and her eyes fall on the little table beside the bed. There's a little tray there, with a glass of water, aspirin, and a small vase with a red rose in it.

* * *

Kate pads into the kitchen in her nightshirt to find Castle puttering around, stirring, concentrating on what smells like delicious food.

He doesn't see her for a moment, so she just watches, folding her arms, taking in the relaxed rhythm of his movements, the easy grace of his hands. He cooks almost without thinking, she's come to realize; he's spent eighteen years learning to take care of people.

"Hey."

He turns around quickly at her soft greeting, and his whole face breaks into a smile, his eyes warm. "Hey, sleepyhead."

He tugs her into his arms and leans in for a soft kiss, loving and gentle, the richness of red wine on his tongue, and her whole body loosens. Her limbs are heavy from sleep, her mind clouded with grogginess and the smell of dinner and his patient, perfect mouth.

"Mmm." He hums into her lips, stealing one last quick kiss. "I'd say good morning, but it's still night."

"How long have you been here?" He has a key, of course, but she didn't even hear him come in, let alone carry her to bed.

"Almost an hour? You looked exhausted. You didn't even flinch when I carried you." He grins into her cheek. "You missed it. I was so manly."

She chuckles. "I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven." He runs a hand through her hair. "Food's just about ready. Wine's on the counter if you want some."

He turns back to the stove, and she bites her lip. Watching him take over her kitchen was strange at first, but now, every time, she gets this warm, spreading tightness in her chest, the blossoming sense of something bigger, something immense and unstoppable and so utterly inevitable it makes her catch her breath.

And there are no real words for it, not yet, so she just tiptoes over to him and wraps her arms around him again, burying her face in his shoulder, and whispers, "Thank you."

"You know I'm useful. More than just a pretty face, Detective."

She smiles but it's watery. Because it's true. He's a pretty face and strong arms and a loving heart, and she never knew that the same man who'd try to throw himself in front of a bullet to save her would put flowers and aspirin by her bed and cook dinner while she took a nap after a long day.

She puts her hands on his cheeks and pulls him down for a long, slow kiss, the kind that makes her blood heat up, lips and teeth and tongue and breath. Castle's a thorough kisser, deliberate and exacting and never holding back, and by the time she pulls away her whole body is buzzing with want.

"Well." He slides his arm around her waist again, and her face gets hot. "Are we doing dessert first? You do have a microwave. We could reheat."

And it still kind of blows her mind that now, if she wants to, she can just put dinner on hold and go have sex with Castle first.

"No. I'm hungry. I forgot lunch."

He laughs, a short puff of air across her cheek. "Of course you did." He kisses her forehead and tugs her hand. "Come on. Eat."

* * *

After food and wine, Kate falls asleep on him ten minutes into whatever episode of _Planet Earth_ they're watching. And she dreams about the ring that, even though they're barely been dating for months, she's been suspecting for the past three years he's been wanting to give her.


End file.
